A Jolly Good Easter Holiday In Paddington’s London [V] Photograph

Some choose to follow in the footsteps of great spiritual masters in the hope that reliving the footfalls from one so revered, though unfathomable eras separate the two, will usher a closer communion with the deepest meanings of the teachings they left behind for posterity. But, who should we consider as a spiritual master? Contrary to popular notions it is not always the man or woman stood on the extravagantly decorated podium adorned in the lushest garland of marigolds, nor is this person always dressed in the robes of the ascetic spending his days on the floors of temples whilst in some otherworldly trance or the chap with a beard with sacred texts under his arm. A true spiritual master is in fact any soul who has a hand in defining you into an authentically better human being. If that logic is followed to its singularity then, as disquieting as it is to our peace of mind, even our worst enemies, adversaries whom we cannot stand to bring to mind or speak of their misdeeds on our tongue, have been created by that Great Artist to test the limits of your spiritual endurance. I do not justify the evils of the world, rather, as in the effect of the mosaic that is only enjoyable from afar so it is that the big picture of the world in all its anarchic perplexity and confounding beauty can be seen to be painted with the universal message that Divinity rests within us. If we are capable of the worst nightmares then, in equal measure, each of us also has the potential to express humanitarian responsibility to create a world that would quite easily rival and surpass any those imagined in our wildest dreams. As for spiritual masters in my life, I have been profusely blessed with many and in many guises. Orthodoxy was never my strong point and that is why at times these wise figures have come from the depths of not sacred books but a species of books often overlooked by the grown-ups, disregarded for their apparent simplicity and whimsical content. Paddington taught me that the greatest adventure that we could ever hope for in this vast, cold and lonely universe is the one in which You and I are finally lead to each other… :)) A trunk as old as time, a stowaway bear at sea Deep-set eyes, furry face and a jar of marmalade for tea Waves ceased, his boat reached port on tempest banks: London capital A droplet alone, no friends his own, darkness stung like sharp nettle So I came in search, beyond fields, farewell to gates of my stonewalled farm Pray, someday, return I shall with my beloved Paddington in arm Nuha blends into mosaic, Roman artistry of precise skill To see the bigger picture, step back a little if you will A cunning quartet huddle in Piccadilly Circus, Banksy’s minions we do not know The chewy culprit of the Pharaoh’s beard, was it mice or a crow? A tree in the park stands in direct path, three heads cautiously peer out I gave a run, sped up the trunk - an impressive show of clout! Central court of the British Museum, a congregation by Viking horn The ‘Hidden Friend’ and Amun’s Chantress, eternal secret lovers sworn! A tiger on a double-decker and a ‘bobby’ frozen, attention unilaterally gunned Tania escapes detention for she does occupy the highest chain in command! ‘King Tut’ adept in negotiating the park’s many hurdles despite face so very meek The coolest South American tax collector, he let us play hide-and-seek! Fossil fuels burnt strange slogans across Rama Mama’s T-shirt Sir Smirke the impresario of architecture would surely contend overt Ancestral echoes of my pen in ‘Lover’s Fountain’ – touched I confess Sensuality of the Himalayas, behold as Shiva and Parvati caress A sunrise pink in Nuha’s hair and my sleeping motherhood stirred Butter knives to push Tania through, our little tweety bird Polar ambitions easily achieved if you wear a woolly bit of red And 120 elephants it was not which is why ‘King Tut’ did not fled! Cleopatra lesser known, youthful dreams preserved, spoke through glass International efforts fuelled Red Elephant who sped supersonically over grass Destiny was talked about and a tender elder proposed In Buddha’s palm shone fruits of peace, in my garden they grow exposed A stone monk, wanderer of forest paths, became fleeting waft of life My gentleman uncle bows down with ease, to his sisters and his wife Cramped spaces they are not, the red telephone box is a mechanical heart And when one hand is held by another, now that’s a work of art! A trunk as old as time, a stowaway bear at sea Deep-set eyes, furry face and a jar of marmalade for tea Waves ceased, his boat reached port on tempest banks: London capital A droplet alone, no friends his own, darkness stung like sharp nettle So I came in search, beyond fields, farewell to gates of my stonewalled farm Pray, someday, return I shall with my beloved Paddington in arm… Photography, Words & Poem: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Spring Reunion Series | London | UK 2015

Photography:Color on Other

Original:One-of-a-kind Artwork

Size:39.4 W x 31.5 H x 0.4 D in

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